Chapter 2: Breakfast and a Challenge
I awoke to an unusual sensation: Greer's rough, cat-like tongue on my cock, trying to pleasure me to full hardness. For a normal man, this would have been uncomfortable, even painful, but for me, it tickled. "Climb on Greer," I rumbled, "I know what you want."
Her eyes gleamed in the dim morning light filtering through the blinds. That smirk, all fang and promise, returned to her lips. With a fluid, powerful motion, she rose from where she knelt and swung a furred leg over my hips.
Greer mounts me, wincing slightly as she presses her weight down against my morning erection, her still-leaking sex resisting briefly before enveloping the broad head of my cock. The evidence of last night’s marathon release made the initial penetration a hot, slick, and breathtakingly tight struggle.
She purrs from deep in her chest as she lowers herself on me, stopping with just an inch or so of the thickest part of my root still outside of her body. Her head fell back, a low groan escaping her. “Every time feels like the first time,” she breathed, her inner muscles fluttering around the imposing intrusion.
She presses her hands against her stomach, just above her sex. Her claws were sheathed, her fingertips pressing into the soft fur of her lower abdomen.
“There’s still so much of you in me,” she purrs, slowly moving her hips in a circle, “I could get used to this.” The slow grind was agonizingly good, a deep, internal massage that made my hands tighten on her thighs. “I woke up feeling… full. I love it.”
“Good,” I managed to grunt, my own hips rising to meet her slow, circular rhythm. The sensation of pushing through the residual, liquid warmth of my own spend was uniquely possessive, profoundly intimate. “That was the idea.”
“Cocky bastard.” Her grin was wicked. She began to move in earnest, lifting and dropping with a athletic grace that stole my breath. Her tail lashed the air beside us, a frantic metronome. “You talk about marriage and then you… you mark me like this? For hours?”
“You said you’d think about it.” I thrust up, driving that last stubborn inch into her, and she cried out, her body accepting the final, full measure. “I’m just giving you incentives.”
Her laughter broke into a gasp. Her rhythm became less controlled, more desperate, driven by the relentless ache of her heat. She rode me with a ferocity that would have shattered a normal bedframe, her claws scrabbling for purchase on my impregnable chest. The sounds she made were raw, unfiltered, a mix of human pleasure and animal need.
I let her use me, let her chase her release, my hands guiding her powerful hips. She was a storm of orange and black fur and frantic motion above me. When her climax tore through her, it was a silent, breathless scream, her body locking into a rigid arc before collapsing forward onto me.
Her convulsions triggered my own system, and I felt the deep, internal pulse begin again. A fresh, potent surge mixing with the old. She shuddered, burying her face in my neck. “Not… not another thirty minutes,” she pleaded, but her hips were still grinding, milking me. “I’ll leak for a week.”
“Maybe just ten,” I murmured, rolling us over without slipping out. I pinned her beneath me, the new angle making her eyes fly open. I started a slow, deep, relentless pace, each thrust promising another spill. “You started this. At sunrise. With that sandpaper tongue.”
“I was hungry,” she gasped, her legs wrapping high around my back, her heels drumming against me. Her green eyes were wide, watching me. “I still am.”
“For what?”
“For this.” She pulled my head down, her rough tongue dragging across my lips before she kissed me, deep and starving. “For you. Just… more.”
We moved together in the quiet morning, a slow, wet, claiming rhythm punctuated by her purrs and my own guttural sounds. The sustained release within her was a background hum now, a constant, low-level testament to the night before. It was messy, and visceral, and she clung to me through every minute of it.
Finally, spent in a different, deeper way, we lay tangled. The evidence of our union was a warm, sticky slickness between her thighs and on the sheets. She traced the lines of my face with a soft-padded finger. “You’re trouble, Ron Hardin.”
“You have no idea.” I kissed her forehead. “Coffee?”
“Please. And food. I need to replace the calories you’ve… drained.” She stretched, a long, luxurious movement that made her tail twitch. “And then, maybe, we see how many times you can make that happen before I actually break.”
I got up, feeling her eyes on me as I pulled on a pair of shorts. The kitchen was a few steps away, all cool marble and stainless steel. I heard the pad of her feet behind me.
She hopped up to sit on the massive island counter, watching me grind beans. The amber pendant lights glowed above her, catching the gold in her fur. She was unabashedly naked, one leg drawn up, completely at ease. A slow, sticky trickle trailed down her inner thigh. She didn’t seem to notice, or care.
“You know,” she said, her voice casual, “this heat thing. It’s not just a drive. It… focuses me. On one person. If I let it.” She licked a clawed finger clean, her eyes never leaving mine. “It’s choosing to not fight it. To lean into the obsession.”
I paused, the espresso machine hissing. “And are you? Fighting it?”
She smiled, a slow, dangerous curl of her lips. Her tail gave a single, decisive flick. “What do you think?”
The rich smell of coffee filled the space, mixing with her scent. I poured a cup and handed it to her. Our fingers brushed. “I think I’m making you an omelet. You’ll need your strength.”
“Promises, promises.” She sipped the coffee, her eyes closing in pleasure. When they opened, they held a new, contemplative warmth. “So. About those super-kittens. You think they’d have my stripes or your density?”
My spatula froze mid-air. I looked at her. She wasn’t laughing. She was studying me, a question in her gaze that was more vulnerable than any touch.
“I think,” I said slowly, my heart hammering against my ribs, “they’d be stubborn. And incredible. And probably a nightmare to child-proof for.”
A genuine, soft purr rumbled from her chest. She took another sip, hiding her smile behind the rim of the mug. “Start with six eggs. I’m starving.”
I cracked the eggs into a bowl, the sound sharp in the quiet kitchen. The sizzle of butter in the pan was a comforting, domestic counterpoint to everything that had happened. She watched, sipping her coffee, her tail-tip twitching with a lazy, contented rhythm.
“You’re actually a decent cook,” she observed, her nose wrinkling as the scent of sautéing onions and peppers filled the air.
“Survival skill,” I said, flipping the omelet with a practiced wrist. “When you can’t be damaged, you learn to avoid takeout poisoning.” I plated the fluffy omelet and slid it across the island to her, along with a fork.
She didn’t move to the stool. She ate right there on the counter, cross-legged, devouring the food with a focused pleasure that was almost as intimate as what we’d just done. A piece of pepper clung to her fur by her lip. I reached over and brushed it away. My thumb lingered on the softness of her cheek.
Her green eyes lifted to mine, chewing slowly. She swallowed. “What?”
“Nothing.” I poured my own coffee. “Just looking.”
A low purr started in her chest again. She finished the last bite, set the plate aside, and leaned back on her hands. The morning light traced the powerful lines of her torso, the subtle shift of muscle under fur. A silent invitation.
I moved around the island, standing between her knees. The residual warmth from the stove was nothing compared to the heat radiating from her. I put my hand on the fur of her belly, just below her belly button. She was impossibly warm to the touch.
Her purr stuttered, then deepened. Her abdominal muscles tightened under my palm. Her gaze was heavy-lidded, watching me watch her. I leaned over and kissed her. It tasted of coffee and eggs and her, a slow, languid exploration that held the echo of last night’s frenzy and this morning’s claiming.
When I pulled back, her claws were gently pricking the fabric of my shorts. “We have four more days before the team gets back from space,” I told her, my voice warm and thick from the kiss. “How long did you say your heat lasts?”
Her smile was a slow, wicked curve. She guided my hand lower, over the damp, feverish fur between her legs. “About five.”